


My Favourite Colour

by BarPurple



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dorks in Love, F/M, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Text Messages
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-12
Updated: 2019-06-12
Packaged: 2020-05-02 00:09:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19187992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BarPurple/pseuds/BarPurple
Summary: He must think he was so clever, answering THAT question, from THAT text message.





	My Favourite Colour

**Author's Note:**

  * For [darnedchild](https://archiveofourown.org/users/darnedchild/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Hi.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10955271) by [darnedchild](https://archiveofourown.org/users/darnedchild/pseuds/darnedchild). 



> Inspired by darnedchild's Hi and Hello. Two wonderful fics that got me wondering what Molly did next.

Molly strolled along the aisle slower than she normally would. She was more of a ninja shopper, expert at being in and out of a shop in mere moments, her purchase made with the minimum of fuss, thanks to strategic planning. Thanks to Sherlock – consulting pain in the arse – Holmes she was taking her time today.

Of all the texts she'd sent him THAT one was the one he chose to comment on. Seriously? She'd sat staring at the door he'd swanned out of for a good thirty seconds before the mortification tried to sink in. That had been firmly quashed. Yes, he'd told her his favourite colour in front of Greg and John, but neither of them knew the circumstance of her asking him that question. If either of them gave it any thought, (not much chance of that while they were on a case), then they'd probably think she'd asked him 'What's your favourite colour?' while they were examining the nail varnish of a body, or looking at bacteria in the lab. Sherlock and her had talked about stranger things during autopsies and the like. 

No, she wasn't worried that Greg or John would realise that the conversation revolved around her need to buy new knickers. They had both married women, probably been dragged around the lingerie section a time or two, far too worldly to be shocked by the idea that, as a woman, she needed to shop for delicates on occasion. Okay, they might raise an eyebrow as to why she was discussing that with Sherlock of all people. Oh sod it, if in the highly unlikely event either of them asked her, then she'd nick Sherlock's go-to-fib and claim it was for a case. They would probably believe her, 'Molly, I need you to discuss purchasing under garments with me' wouldn't even make it into the top fifty of weirdest things Sherlock had asked her to do for a case. Hell, it wouldn't even make the top ten of weird things she'd agreed to do for him in the name of a case!

It was his answer that had her perusing the racks of bikini, hi-cuts and boy shorts with care. Cherry red. She might not have his deductive skills, but she wasn't blind. Sherlock ripped the piss out of almost all of her clothes, with varying degrees of nastiness, but the only thing he'd ever say about her cherry print stuff was, 'It's alright, I suppose'. Long ago she'd worked out Sherlock was a bit like a teenager, when he really liked something, (other than murder, science, or bees), he played indifferent. Using that logic 'alright' translated to, 'Wow, I really like that!'. She also knew that he knew she didn't have any knickers in cherry red. He might be the great Hat Detective, but she knew when someone had been in her underwear drawer, and since most blokes she'd dated treated that drawer like some sort of hell's gate, it had to be him.

As she considered a pair of hi-cuts in red, she wondered if Sherlock's liking for cherries stemmed from the same place as hers? (Ha ha – stemmed.) As a teenager she'd had what her Grandma called 'a bit of a pash' for Bettie Paige. In her mind Bettie was linked with rockabilly and with that came cherries. She'd had a few not-so-successful tries at nailing the Bettie's signature pin-up look and decided that bullet bras were never going to look good on her, but cherries she could wear with confidence.  
The red hi-cuts weren't the right shade and had more scratchy lace than she was happy with. She was about ready to head to the next shop, when she spotted them. The perfect pair of cherry red knickers. Boy shorts, made from bamboo, so deliciously silky under her fingers, and even better on the left hip a simple embroidered outline of a pair of cherries. Perfect.

Now she just had to be brave enough to let Sherlock know about her purchase.

It only took her half a glass of wine after a nice long shower to slip her new knickers on and take a selfie. She chosen to stand in front of her mirror, hips angled slightly to showcase the cherries on her hip. The picture she chose looked good, no more suggestive than a page for a catalogue. Although most for most men she knew lingerie catalogues had been their first furtive wank fodder. Nope. She did not want to think about teenager Sherlock that way. With quick fingers she type the message and send the photo.

 

Molly's text alert sounded just as he and John were waiting to cross the road. Sherlock opened it just as the green man lit up and he started across. 

Hi. Thoughts?

He stopped dead in the middle of the road and stared at the attached picture. John had to grab his arm and drag him to the pavement.

“Earth to Sherlock. What's happened?”

He blinked at John and shook his head to try and kick start his brain. It took a supreme force of will to stow his phone in his pocket without taking another look at Molly's message.

“Something's come up. I have to go. Now.”

John watched as Sherlock summoned a cab and barked an address at the cabbie. Molly's address in fact. And that had been Molly's text alert. John wasn't as unobservant as Sherlock liked to claim. Dopey git probably didn't even know he had a Molly smile. He rocked on his heels and smiled to himself. About bloody time.

 

Molly wasn't at all surprised when Sherlock used his key and burst into her flat. He was out of breath, although he'd come by cab, (she'd heard it pull up), and his hair looked like he'd been raking his fingers through it. He stood in the middle of her lounge, panting and staring at her. She slipped a an old envelope between the pages of her book and set it aside.

“Sherlock?”

“I have thoughts. I need more data.”  
She was stretch out on her sofa, her back against the arm. She keep her eyes on him as she inched her dressing gown up her thigh to reveal the tiniest flash of cherry red.

“About these?”

Sherlock moaned and dropped to his knees by her side. His hands shook as he reached for her. 

Molly caught them in her own and whispered; “Hi.”

He gave her a honest smile; “Hello.”


End file.
